"Warren, the man is still sensible," she said. "This letter is honest.
He is much a heathen at heart, but I believe he hasn't given Delia cause
to blush--and that's a good deal! Dear me, I am fond of the fellow--
he is so clever. But clever men are trying."

As for Delia, like every sensible English girl, she enjoyed herself
in the time of youth, drinking in delightedly the interest attaching
to Gaston's betrothed. His letters had been regular, kind yet not
emotionally affectionate, interesting, uncommon. He had a knack of
saying as much in one page as most people did in five. Her imagination
was not great, but he stimulated it. If he wrote a pungent line on
Daudet or Whistler, on Montaigne or Fielding, she was stimulated to know
them. One day he sent her Whitman's Leaves of Grass, which he had picked
up in New York on his way to England. This startled her. She had
never heard of Whitman. To her he seemed coarse, incomprehensible,
ungentlemanly. She could not understand how Gaston could say beautiful
things about Montaigne and about Whitman too. She had no conception how
he had in him the strain of that first Sir Gaston Belward, and was also
the son of a half-heathen.

He interested her all the more. Her letters were hardly so fascinating
to him. She was beautifully correct, but she could not make a sentence
breathe. He was grateful, but nothing stirred in him. He could live
without her--that he knew regretfully. But he did his part with sincere
intention.

That was up to the day when he saw Andree as Mademoiselle Victorine.
Then came a swift change. Day after day he visited her, always in the
presence of Annette. Soon they dined often together, still in Annette's
presence, and the severity of that rule was never relaxed.